


Blue Flowers

by spicytoots



Category: Avatar (2009)
Genre: F/M, Healthy Relationships, Slow Burn, how do i write slow burn? idk we'll find out, this has been drafted for MONTHS, we love slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:15:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26719663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spicytoots/pseuds/spicytoots
Summary: Failing the Iknimaya is not unheard of but living and not completing it is new territory. Liyanin is forced to retrain, being placed at the very beginning under the teaching of Tsu'tey te Rongloa Ateyitan. This displeases the both of them. Though can their harden relationship grow into something much more?
Relationships: Neytiri te Tskaha Mo'at’ite/Jake Sully, Tsu'tey te Rongloa Ateyitan/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 10





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in my mind peylo is hot *sighs*

Dawn had barely touched the horizon when Father painted her face, shading underneath a canopy of pinks and purples. Wet and cold, the yellow markings symbolizing the Iknimaya passage are done with concentration, callous fingers trailing along a blue skinned path. A smooth v-shape lines both sides of Liyanin’s forehead and ends above the nose bridge, inside the shapes center is a circular size dot. The size is identical to Father’s thumb. 

Silence hangs between the duo, serenity drapes itself across their shoulders, feeling like a moth’s wing. Occasional singing spills from the man’s tongue to sooth the mind, easing the heart without physically touching it. His voice is a deep guttural, far different from the honeyed song of his youth. Trails of recklessness, leaping from the highest of trees and running widely like a herd of talioang along the Grave Bog are distant forgotten songs, told in humming. The lyrics mumble.

Combing, detangling knots in her hair is a bone brush. Craved and smoothed, to the best of the carver's ability for ridges move on its white surface like tiny specks in uncooked bread. The material was taken from the bones of the bringer of fear, a sleek muscular creature that is mated to the night. Liyanin bites back a hiss when Father tugs her scalp unusually harsh, he mutters apologies. Father is a delicate braider. Long nimble fingers assure it, accustomed to bowstrings and crafting arrows, he was gifted with talented hands. He twirls the strands around his fingers, mindful not to pull too hard or braid too tightly, not wanting to bring an irritating throbbing pain to the hairline. 

Beside his knees is a potted bowl of bead, greens of light and dark, limes and grass leaves. The beads are placed on smaller braids, lining up in four rows and scattering throughout Liyanin’s hair in high and low sections. Creating a palm sized forest stationed on the shores of blackened waters. Father had once said braiding was like weaving, the actions similar to crafting baskets. The movements memorized where he would do it with closed eyes. Not needing light to guide his motions when his fingers bent and weaved better than his sight. Each morning, Liyanin watched her Father take the same position behind her to braid her hair as he does with his colorful baskets. Serenity is in routine, it is good to have routine.

Timidly like an admirer sees their crush, the morning air slowly steps forward, moving away from lingering light. Faint giggles of children patter down the trees stairway, they speak in loud whispers attempting to be quiet but children mistake an indoor voice with an outdoor one. Parents' voices float behind with scowling tired faces and scolding words, there is warmth in the eyes that do not meet their expressions. The scolding of a parent is a tender thing, they often do it out of love or concern. Sometimes it wasn’t like that, those were the times the chest banged with pain and no amount of comfort would change redden and swollen grief filled eyes.

Soon, Liyanin will depart for the Floating Mountains to bond with an ikran. A distant path that is hidden from sunlight and childish antics, she will leave the rest of her adolescence behind to chase after a warrior’s life. It is an exciting time for every student. Yet, her stomach tightens and heat streams through her body. Taming an ikran completes one of the rites of passage, bringing them a step closer to the Unilatron, both passages rigorous than the last.

There are stories about young Na’vi who have lost their lives during Iknimaya. Their bodies flying off the rockery, being tossed around as if they were a child’s favorite woven doll until their head split and necks twist, bone sticking outwards. You would find them on the forest floor, blending, becoming one with the dirt and leaves. A twisted mane of bone and torn flesh, slowly returning what was taken from the earth to ensure survival of their people. 

Liyanin’s father bears the scars of his rite, many years ago when his joints did not ache. Medium sized lines stretch across his back, showing where the creature's talons marked him. Such markings are prideful, showing others that he is a true ikran makto and so is his heart and spirit. The tale of his passage unravels itself faintly in her mind, the way voices reverberate in valleys and cave walls. His voice husky, blinking away sleep. The fear of dying outshines her father’s youthful tales, slipping off the cliffs or a loose rock, plummeting to an embarrassing demise pulls at the strings of her mind. 

Noises arise and the day begins. Smoked meat floats into her nostrils, swirling mockingly, invoking a growl. Women carry baskets on their backsides, heading down the path towards the river and children run after them, little fingers reaching out to grab their hands. Father slides on the last row of beads then beckons his daughter to stand, yellow eyes hover over her appearance, holding a single braid. Liyanin takes it from his grasp. 

“Green?” She observes the colors of forests and grasses, stems of flowers and plants that have concealed themselves in rounded beads. 

“For luck, it will keep you safe. Bring you back to me with all limbs intact.” Says Father, superstitious ways revealing themselves. Green is considered to bring health and good luck.

“What if I come back missing a finger? Then your beads did not serve their purpose.” 

“But you did not lose a hand so-” Pointing a finger at the beads, poking a strand, Father’s lips curve. His eyes gleam with what his lips do not. “They would have served their purpose.” 

Syura’ewan, her brother, appears as Father finishes his response. Identical green beads are in his braided hair, bounded together in a ponytail, single strands hanging to show the green. He bears yellow markings on his forehead, painted by Father when darkness was aloft, a glow worms blue light guiding his sight.

“Vkorn is waiting for us in the clearing.” Syura’ewan informs, feet backing to retrace the path in which he came. 

Looking over, her chest sinks, Liyanin is being dragged into a murky womb without hope to bring her to the surface. Sharp and oval eyes blink impatiently at the prolonged silence, not wishing to face the bottom of Vkorn if they are late, the older Na’vi man a force best not tested. 

Hurriedly, Father places a hand on Liyanin. Sharing his words alongside both his children, in a tone that strides between worry and apprehensiveness. As he whispers, whether to himself or to them, his fingers curl and press down. Hesitant to see them depart, knowing that holding onto them the same way when they were children will not make them stay. 

“Be brave. May Ewaya bless your journey.” 

His words do not give her courage. 

__________________

Growing heavy as the small company goes higher in the mountains is the grey mist flooding the sky. Greedily hiding the bright blue, wishing to have its gleaming smile to itself, hoarding the sun’s rays, not giving an ounce away. The mountain sides seem cold, distant. A foreign land that is told in stories by elders, gathered around a warm crackling fire. Bodies pressed together, shoulders touching and knees brushing, leaning forward unknowingly in hopes of reaching into the words and transporting there. 

Grass occasionally brushes Liyanin’s toes, it’s tall blades itching her skin yet the plant’s smell is refreshing. Clearing her body, the air being different from the one below, if such a thing can be stated and described. She doesn't know how to explain the difference, just experiencing a new freshness rushing through her senses. Underneath Liyanin, her pa’li huffs nosily, slowing its pace to push its large body closer to the rocky wall. Wishing to avoid the pathway's edge as rocks scatter under its hooves, stones trickle down the side. She rubs its neck soothingly, a frightened pa’li will get her killed faster than an ikran. 

Pitter patter, pitter patter. The falling of rocks fade. Squeezing her thighs, flexing their calves and curling her toes almost painfully, the Na’vi peers to see the endless pit below. The forest cannot be seen with the naked eye nor can the path they had taken be discovered. Floating rocks and flowing water are in her line of sight, ears perk up at the sound of water that evaporates before meeting the ground, not blessing the dirt with its rainfall. 

Ahead are the other young hunters, their back muscles tight and shoulders stiff. In each of their hands hangs a bow, sweat wrinkling the palms. The bow’s craftsman shift is wondrous for a beginner, there are no splinters impaling her fingers, it is smooth on her skin as it attains a pleasant curving spine. Father had watched closely as Liyanin craved the wood, hunting knife skinning bark like she was undressing an animal corpse. 

The journey had been prolonged and quiet. Voices silencing the moment they came onto the mountain path, coordinating a straight line. Hooves trotting against stone and waterfalls have been conversing yet no one answers them. Her butt is numb, attempting to adjust herself does not help, frustration bites at her. Whoever founded this rite of passage, why could it not be more simple. 

Vkorn, their teacher, leads the front while Wati leads the sky. Would the woman arrive at the rockery by the time it takes them to climb the great vines? Surely she will. An ikrans wings are swifter than riding pa’li up a steep mountain. 

Slowing their pace, the pa’li walk into an open clearing of hanging vines and blue flowers. Floating and bobbing like apples in water, rocks spand high above, almost touching the very tip of the sky. Vines tie each rock together, connecting them to create a bridge, they will scale the stoney stairway. Faint blues open the grey mist curtains. Liyanin blinks in awe. Father had gladly painted an image for her when she was young, the beauty haunting her mind as she grew older. A tale of marvelous clouds and enormous floating mountains. 

She dismounts the pa’li with gentle coos and the animal flicks its tail in delight. Slinging her bow across her back and adjusting the thread away from digging into her armpit, she blinks at the stairway ascending to Iknimaya. A marvelous yet intimidating scene. If only she could keep this view and hide it away, opening it whenever she pleases. Would a prayer for blessed dreams come if she tried? 

By this time the girl can hear a blaring rockery, a nest full of vibrant ikrans. Each destined to their own hunter for life, a chosen bond that transcends life times. She had decided her ikrans name years ago when Father showed Syura’ewan and her his, Father’s ikran was a thrilling sight as it chirped and flapped its leathery wings. The animals coating being of early morning purple and blue skies, black patches littering its body. Father named them Ompin. 

Syura’ewan breaks her thoughts, he brushes against her with a playful gentle nudge and catches his gleaming eyes. Laughter rumbles in his throat as she copies his actions. Peylo, a student and friend, swats his tail at being bumped into. The moment does not last. 

“Come!” Commands Vkorns gravelly voice. 

Scurrying like children in trouble, they come to stand in front of Vkorn. Backs straighter than tree trucks and chins held high. This earns a hum of approval, Vkorn is pleased at their mannerisms, he did not teach childish students with a lack of respect, old fashion as he was. He is an older hunter paired with stern eyes and a permanent frown, the grey sky illuminates his eyes to a crystal yellow  
The scar across his cheek is noticeable, murky skies often bring out one's appearance for the sun shadows it. Vkorn stands over them, Liyanin tilts her head some to properly meet his gaze. 

“You are ready for Iknimaya.” Her stomach tightens like rope knotting so intensely that it leaves blisters. He continues, “Stay close, do not look down. Be careful where you step.” Eyes linger on Syura’ewan. 

Vkorn says something to the Na’vi who accompanied them up the mountains before turning away. Possibly telling them to begin the journey home with pa’li in tow. Within seconds she watches her teacher leap onto the vines, veins rippling and body swinging. There is graceful ease in his movements, having led students up the path time and time again. Accustomed to the footing, knowing which vines to grab, when to move and when to halt. 

Liyanin hesitates, eyes glued to the tremendous height and she is sure she can capture a cloud. Falling seems more likely to happen than getting bashed in by an ikran, which fate is worse. Her brother follows close behind Vkorn, mimicking his movements and keeping pace. Syura’ewan moves like a syaksyuk, looks like an animal too. Peylo stands beside her, his tail brushing her backside and there is a glint in his face, they both watch the two Na’vi climb.

Peylo rests a palm on her shoulders, urging her forward. “Come. We don’t want to fall behind.” 

“I promise not to let you fall.” Liyanin lightly speaks, a nervous joke escaping. She notes how his hair sways and biceps flex. 

Stretching forward her feet leave the stone ground, wrapping her hands around thick green vines while digging her feet into them for leverage. The vine swings more under Peylo’s weight, his huffs are close behind. Airy winds whiff along her body, cool puffs feeling like water. A loud hoot comes from above, excited and encouraging. The climb to heaven seems farther than she can reach. 

Throughout the climb the wind picks up and sweat begins to line her brow, trickling downwards. Peylo stays behind her a few paces, grumbling words. Vkorn is a swift mover acting as if his youth never left him, it had not for he could leave the more skilled young hunters out of breath. Treading across the thick vine bridge was difficult, the bumps and openings messing her footing up but it had seemed to excite her brother. Syura’ewan skipping and jumping, hoots echoing to the sky. The climb reminds Liyanin of the games Syura’ewan and her had, who could climb the faster or the highest, Father would join their antics. Scooping her with one tree trunk arm as they leap by a shocked Syura’ewan, laughter filling the afternoon sun. 

Liyanin shares her younger brother's excited hoots when the group reaches the rocky cave cavern. Ascending its staircase, bare feet slapping on the stoney surface sending echoes off the walls. Waterfalls burst in her ear, smelling fresh and droplets hit her skin. Sunlight engulfs the small company when they enter the cliff sides clearing, loud shrills flowing from the other side and soaring ikrans light the sky. The ikran rockery is right behind the waterfall, Liyanin begins to imagine it. A vibrant picture with splatters of paint. Her ears tingle. 

Peylo squats at the side, carefully balancing his body and looks over the cliff. His braids spreading over his shoulder, beads gently clicking and necklaces rattling. Stuck in a trance his lips part in awe. The mountains are large in width and taller than the sky, moss of green spills out of cracks and sides. Misty white clouds float thinly, slowly being pushed by air. She sticks her hand outwards to feel the cool air, its tender on her scarred hand. 

“Kaltxì!” A voice greets, interrupting the quiet. The voice is accompanied with a shrill of flapping wings. All three students back away allowing room for their teacher to land inside. A woman disconnects their tsaheylu from a wide eyed ikran and she rubs their long red chin. The students respectfully greet their teacher. Vkorn crosses his arms greeting the newcomer with a nod. 

Wati’s smile is contagious, a trait Liyanin first noticed when placed under her instructions. Far different compared to Vkorn who seemed to soften when she is near. An amusing expression is on her face, side eyeing the older man.

“Did you get lost on the way? I was worried I’d become wrinkled by the time you got here.” Wati amusingly puffs, flipping her long hair. Liyanin swears her hair twinkles like the stars.

Vkorn grunts. “Perhaps if you lead them on foot you would not complain.” 

“When pa’li fly then I shall consider my love.” 

The banter ends with a raised hand, silencing the woman yet not her smile. Liyanin follows Peylo through the waterfalls ledge, a gentle guiding hand is on her shoulder, Wati balancing her student with ease. The ledge is not wide, it is slippery and bodies must be pressed against its wall. Watchful eyes and careful side steps is especially required. A wondrous sight reveals itself.

Ikrans of every color make up the nests population. Green, orange, blue and purple. Syura’ewan chuckles airly, tail flickering at the sight, lost for words. This scene can outrival the beating forests during nightfall, she wants to soak in its waters for as long as she can. It fits her father’s description. Wati laughs in amusement commenting on their expressions, they look like children whose parents brought them on their first hunt. 

Vkorn wastes no time diving into the passage and Liyanin dislikes him for it. A voice in her head silently hopes he will not choose her first, that he will pick Peylo or Syura’ewan to perform. Or better yet maybe one of the boys will volunteer, she will go last when it is only Vkorn and herself. She decides it is not a good day for wishes, he lifts his eyes to her own and his choice is clear. 

“Liyanin, you will go.” Her stomach sinks, turning into an uncomfortable sick-like feeling. She hands her bow to Peylo, her friend mutters encouragement. What she needs is Ewaya’s blessings. 

“Ikran is not like our gentle Pa’li. They will not be delighted to see you, they will bear teeth and rank their talons on stone. They will try to kill you.” Wati whispers quickly in her ear, warm breath burning her ears. Liyanin blinks at her teacher. Is that vomit rising in her throat? 

“Wonderful.” Mutters Liyanin moving towards the nest. 

“Be quick, do not linger.” Says Wati leaping onto a rock overseeing the rockery. Uplifting shouts press into her back. “You will have one chance.” Father should hope his green beads prove successful. 

Her nimble hands move to her belt and grips their bola. The weapon's weight is heavy in her palm, she runs her thumb over the oval hardened polished seeds attached to the rope by woven threads. Death like cries make her ears tremble, it is surprising that hunters have not gone deaf. The ikran do not attempt to attack her instead they jump away and greet her with hisses of warning. Resembling the way a angtsik flares its nostrils and stomps its feet. 

Every young child knows how to properly wield a bola, their parents enforcing it to practice for future hunts. However a child’s bola is much more tiny and lighter compared to a hunters. Father had first taught Liyanin to shoot a bow before moving onto the bola, she can still feel the invisible aches in her fingertips and the peeling skin. 

Liyanin is on guard with a drumming heart. She treads gingerly, rapidly scanning the ikrans flapping about. Their hisses make her feet skip, she is not used to such noises. A territorial sign, she bears her sharp teeth hissing too. Asserting her dominance might pay off, to show them that she is not frightened easily and will not be chased off. 

A green ikran crawls downwards, its eyes staring into her with thoughts she cannot read. Yet the way it hisses back, teeth extracting from its pinkish white gums. Other ikran dart away, blinking at the common sight. The bola is pressed tightly in her hand, the rope digging into her skin and leaving faint marks behind. Liyanin spins the bola creating a swishing sound and advances. 

Hissing she circles the creature, sweat lining her pounding head. The ikran lunges with snapping jaws and she jumps back just as it’s teeth sink into the air. This is different from the soft pa’li, who often allowed the Na’vi to ride them without fuss. 

Her throat begins to burn heavily with rapid breaths. Stone digs into the soles of her feet roughly, she angles herself to the side, circling the bola. When it spreads its wings and stretches its neck to bite her, the bola flies to hold its jaws captive. 

“Make the bond!” Vkorn shouts, standing on the rocks above. 

Liyanin leaps on its back grunting at the thrashing animal and wraps her ankles around its neck, clinging tightly to her position. This ikran is fierce and enraged, its body screaming to shake her off. Her forehead slams against rock, piercing shrills rumble in the Ikrans throat and its wings flap defensively. Liyanin swiftly regains herself. Blood trickles above her left eye. She has worked too hard to fail. Rolling from her place on the ground just as curling talons scratches her shadow, she leaps onto its back.. Smooth rubbery skin rubs her belly, pressing her feet around its throat and curling toes. Her hands hold its teylu, a sort of relief floods her as she grabs her braid. Thin worms like strings eagerly reach for the destined seed of success. 

She goes to make the bond to forever be connected but the ikran flaps upwards and staggers, causing her body to slip leaving open a mistake. The bola loosens.

It throws her off causing the girl to fly backwards, mixtures of screams and vocal noises rise in the air as their body glides through the air. Landing with a harsh thud, skull shouting upon impact. Her back skids across the rocky surface, no doubt leaving scraps and bruises, and for an instance she can see the misty clouds swarming. Her head is screaming and bulging. Liyanin can hear the slow approach of death. Her vision begins to blur and colors pulsate. An overwhelming tornado of purples and blacks. Air flows along her cheeks.

The ikran moves for her, its yellow eyes bulging out of its sockets. Looking wildly with a cocking head and teeth springing from its gums. A body slams into it, yanking its beak backwards and a pair of hands grab her, fingernails digging harshly at her skin and their movements quick. Faint distance shouts of her name are called in a faraway place, she cannot reach it even when she tries. Father's face flashes, she thinks of how his eyes will blink with sadness. The green beads are brilliantly bright. Liyanin blinks towards the stormy grey sky, it is the last thing she sees.


	2. Chapter 2

Inside the darkness, a lantern gives light. It is a gentle glow of river blue, trickling across stone pebbles and washing onto blackened shores. Basking rays of light illuminate in all directions, spreading the blue to far corners or dirt paths. The faint scent of burning herbs linger, grey smoke vanquished, allowing an earthly scent to appear. Blue and herbal scents wrap themselves around the small hut, circling in whispers. 

Wooden bowls and woven baskets line the walls, creating a watchful assemble. Tea leaves, crushed paste, or broken down bark fill them. Their threaded colors and smoothen bark are blinking eyes, they have no mouths stitched into them. All they offer is silent vigilance. 

In the huts center, shoulders slouching and long hair flowing down their backside like a waterfall, a young Na’vi sits. Hair sticks to their tear-stained cheeks as if they were bugs stuck in honey sap, snot pools underneath nostrils, dripping downwards slowly. Tears drop into their lap, trailing the hands sides until the salty liquid dries and seeps underneath the skin's surface. Their scarred wrist flushes a pale blue as water finds its way on the scarred path. The bowls and baskets watch, the only company the Na’vi has. 

The Na’vi licks at chapped lips, tongue running over peeling skin, and they dryly swallow what little spit builds in their mouth. Grey skies constantly flashes in their head. She remembers the sky fondly for it looked like water when someone dipped their fingers inside and began to twirl the water, creating tiny waves and ripples. That time someone was brewing clouds and brewing to create a storm, to have white sparks brightening above floating rocks.

Liyanin remembers bushes brushing against her and stone pavement gliding underneath her naked feet. Accompanying these images of remembrance is an early morning smell. Freshly made from the rising sun. Truly, it had been a magnificent sight that was soon crushed by a heel of rocks. The ikrans breath spits at her face, a raw meat scent spilling through sharpened teeth. Its leathery skin rubs her belly, the roaring creature forcing the girl off its back with a furious force that made her fly. Then there was nothing, a blank picture of stone and sky, nails marking her skin and pulling her forward. 

The miscarriage of the rite of passage is crisp, blowing chilling winds through her. Entangling her long limbs in unseen rope. Liyanin found herself stepping into unknown territory the same way a baby enters the world without knowing what lurks in it. Vkorn and Wati’s lessons are useless, never teaching their students of what becomes of a Na’vi who committed an unsuccessful passage. Yet how could they? There are no stories of Na’vi failing Iknimaya and living, at least not to her knowledge. 

An unspoken expectation among the clan is one either dies trying or succeeds with their heart intact. There is no inbetween yet Liyanin has managed to do that. Failing and living, becoming stuck in the middle. Rubbing away snot and tears using the back of their palm, the girl shifts and pulls her feet inwards. 

For countless hours she can track nantang prints, in the harshest of rains or in blistering heat, hidden by trees and bushes. Remaining unseen as long as the wind does not pick up her scent, carrying it forward. This time, Liyanin cannot remain unseen despite how many coverings she can curl into. Both the Olo’eyktan and Tsahik will seek her just as she had sought the nantang. Her scent was long discovered. 

A preferable fate would be sinking into the forest floor, entering its soil, and rooting the trees. Becoming part of the forest, giving back to what was taken. Liyanin would not mind rooting into a tree or a flower with fresh petals and soft colors. Her mother named her after fields of blue flowers blooming around the forest floors, hidden in cracks and opening. A hidden joy of the prettiest colors. It was also the same flower her father brought to her mother when he asked for her hand. Their love bloomed from shades of blue.

Shaping into a flower would not be so bad if it would avoid facing the clan leaders. What would they say when they see her? If they decide to see her. They should, they will. 

Eytukan, the Olo’eyktan, leads with an understanding and patient hand, his heart is good. There is no cruelty to be found. Liyanin can appeal to those traits, soften the blow of his choice. The thought lasted a mere second, leaving quickly as it had come. A coward's hope. True warriors do not hope for such trifles. Her parched throat swallows nothing. If it is Eytukan she is worried about then she is placing her worries in the wrong person. The spiritual leader, Mo’at, holds the final decision. 

Mo’at holds a sharp tongue, similar to the bone knife she carries, and with her sharp tongue comes the will of Ewaya. Connecting a world of bridges, earning great respect. Two years ago, Liyanin had watched Eytukan fulfill his mate's choice of banishing the Skypeople from Hometree, severing contact after ten years and forbidding anyone from searching out the schoolhouse. Liyanin picks at her scared wrist. 

Slowly, processing everything, she lies on the brown mat, accepting the soft hide rubbing along back muscles. Tiredness sprinkles dust on her eyelids, crying has taken energy and her eyes are heavy. Liyanin shuts her eyes listening to silence and her beating heart, thumping against bone. Ewaya protects her and gives her teachers courage. Vkorn and Wati will not let anything bad happen to Liyanin, this she is sure of.   
Unexpectedly, sunlight drowns the room in bright light. Liyanin feels heat rising inside her body, flushing her ears. The tips are blushing like a redden fruit. Lifting herself upward she squints at newfound harsh light and her vision tries to adjust itself to sunlight, being too comfortable with the glow worm's light. The sunlight is blinding creating discomfort, Liyanin covers her eyes, peeking through fingers. Standing at the huts entrance is a girl, a bone pierces their nose. Short and thin. The healers student, the bone symbolizes it. 

The Omaticaya healer wears a similar bone, the difference is that their bone is longer and its ends sharp enough to skin a carcase. Liyanin becomes tired, the wave washing across her, begging for sleep and peace. She brings down her hands, watching the newcomer. Their eyes lock in the sunlight, Liyanin remarks how big their eyes are. Wide and childish, glistening yellow casting the look. 

“Oh! You’re awake.” The healers student says lowly, closing the flap and allowing the lanterns to glow again. Around their neck are beaded necklaces laced tightly together, stopping underneath her chin. Their name escapes Liyanin but their face is familiar as if she has seen it in dreams. 

They move gracefully around the hut, hair swaying as if being blown, and their necklaces clink together. Creating a tiny hollow musical sound. Kneeling beside Liyanin, the Na’vi reaches inside a leaf, fingers dripping with paste, a pinkish orange color. Made with herbs and squashed fruit, blended together to prevent infections. 

“How long was I asleep?” Asks Liyanin in a soft-spoken weary tone. The female Na’vi gently lifts Liyanin’s chin, treating her as if she will break with the touch of a fingernail. 

Strange material fuses into her skin, uncomfortable and heavy. Concentrating, the girl smears the paste on the cut along Liyanin’s forehead, dabbing lightly. Spreading it evenly, thinning thicker areas and wiping some off. Crinkling her nose in disgust, Liyanin holds in a distasteful frown at the rotten scent. 

“Three days.” They harmoniously whisper.

Liyanin attempts to control her breathing and her pounding chest. They should have left her there on the cliff’s edge to meet her fate, it is certain she was not meant to be a hunter. A hunter does not fail their passages. Why would Ewaya allow Liyanin to make her first kill if she were to be blessed with failure. Surely it is a sign that the Tsahik has interpreted, having plenty of time. 

Moving away, the girl rises. “I’ll go fetch Wanayihä. He will be glad you are awake.” White light floods then vanishes. Liyanin resists an urge to wipe away the rotten paste. 

As a child, she had been fond of her father’s eyes. Emotions are often told by the eyes. One look at his yellow orbs and she would untangle his emotions, knowing if he was upset or angry. This time, she does not want to look into them, too scared to discover what lurks. Shame, disappointment, mortification. The happiness in them would be for Syura’ewan, her brother who had earned his title of ikran makto. This is what she is sure of.

Liyanin had failed to bring pride, Father must be embarrassed to have such an offspring. Mother enters her head and she wonders what the woman would say. She had loved Syura’ewan and her regardless of their mistakes. All too quickly the flap opens. She knows it is Father without needing to glance upwards, the smell of forest soil reaches her. 

Putting on a brave expression Liyanin lifts her head, hair framing her face looking at the man. “I see you, sempul.” She greets him. He stands, waiting, watching, listening with a heaving chest. 

Striking like a viperwolf, his actions are quick and strides long. There is a force in his movements.   
Dropping to his knees in disbelief. Father embraces her, his arms strong and tightly holding her to his chest. His hands grip her tightly, the veins on his hands popping and knuckles whitening, Liyanin notices the pressure. Tears sting and she is tired. There is no shame in his eyes.

“I see you, ite. I see you.” He breathes, rubbing her head. The huts air is warm, tension digging into the ground, burning her legs.

Murmuring Liyanin rests her chin on Father’s shoulder, an uncomfortable angle, the blade sticking at her throat. “Truly you are not upset with me? 

“Silly hunter, I care that you are alive. Ikran or not my daughter is alive.” His warm voice rumbles. 

She wraps an arm around his back, returning the hug, and closes her eyes at the comfortable sensation from his words and embrace. Feeling secured just as she had been when she was young, keen on racing to their father’s arms knowing he will protect them. Disbelief lingers her mind like a multitude of intertwining paths. 

Her voice quavers, “But I failed.” 

A childlike emotion returns to a tiny body with a tummy too full of fruits and meats their mother gave them. Liyanin had cried once when Syura’ewan knocked her plate from her hands, snot leaking and eyes red as she rubbed her face in their mothers chest. The same despair is back though it is a serious matter. A parents approval is a large impact, their disapproval is the greatest let down. 

Father pulls away, dark eyes blinking softly and rough palms rubbing circles into her skin. He frowns upon noticing his daughter's puffy eyes and tear stained face. Her lips quiver and she attempts at hiding it by biting her tongue. Gently the man brushes his thumbs on her cheeks, wiping away her tears. His hands coarse as raw wood. When he speaks it is with benevolence and compassion. 

“A hometenders first basket is not smooth, the weaving is uneven and the pigments are too soft. A hunter’s first arrow is not precise, falling early before reaching its target. With practice and time, the hometender weaves beautiful baskets and the hunter never misses a target. There is no failure, my daughter, it is a lesson and you will learn it.” 

A sob racks the girl’s body, throwing herself into her father, Liyanin cries and soft coos of his voice carry on the lanterns light. 

When she was a little girl Liyanin often held her father’s great tsko. His bow. She would run her fingers down the long curving spine, searching for any damage. There was never a split or crack to be found, always smooth and sturdy under her touch. In the bows center, delicately threaded together, was the woven binding. Soft colors of white and brown, sewn in decorative patterns. The material twine like, coarse to the touch, and the sturmbeest string tight on her skin. When she pulled it back, the string would play a hollow tone. 

Liyanin thought it was an honor to hold a hunter’s bow, most importantly her father’s. For it is a symbol of adulthood. Childish antics are left behind, the juvenescence of a student long gone and in its place is a man or a woman. Yes, in her mind a bow is a most prized and personal possession. Its wood does not come from any ordinary tree, it is crafted from Hometree. Once it is carved, the bow becomes part of the maker. Heart, mind, and soul woven into one being. At least that is what Liyanin believed. 

When her father entrusted his bow to her, pride swelled inside her chest. The weapon was heavy, its weight bringing her down to a slight slouch. Liyanin thought the reason for its weight was from all the stories it carried. Providing for the People, sharpening skills, training young Na’vi to become hunters. Stories wrapped together. She would place it on her lap, soaking in every minor and large detail, until it was Syura’ewan’s turn to hold it. From the smallest bead to the curving spine. The bow was like her father, she decided, strong and sturdy. Impossible to split.

The girl was wrong. Father did split, his body cracking with stray wood for a mind, flying beyond the forests. Liyanin watched his smile turn grey and his bellowing laugh became like fire’s ash. No longer eager to demonstrate the usages of the tsko, leaving her to the silent empty weaving of her mind. Threading, bending, mending. Threading, bending, mending. Repeating these movements as if it was a constant lesson being taught.

Though Liyanin had Syura’ewan and Peylo, it was not enough. Liyanin advanced her father. Catching him off guard when he returned to the village one day. His skin sweaty, mud dripping down his chest. A successful hunt or was it training day? The girl could not recall.

Liyanin then asked a simple question. It was not a question, it was supposed to be a statement. However the way she said it, in a low nervous tone made it a question. 

“Show me how to shoot a bow?”

The split in her father began to mend. It was as if someone was gently caring for a flower, fixing its petals and giving it enough water and sunlight to grow. Liyanin remembered how the forest smelt, rich and damp. Soil between her toes, staining the heels of her feet. Syura’ewan would slip on mud, the chunks flying onto her skin. A low rumble rose in their father’s throat. What was funny? The enjoyment in the boys slip or the way she yelped in surprise? Possibly both. 

In the forest, her father wore a tight expression. Liyanin noticed the small lines forming in the corners of his eyes. He sucked his lips in, biting the flesh in anticipation as an arrow flew. Liyanin stood beside him, knees bent and arms locked on top of her legs. Syura’ewan would cock his head sideways, following the gliding arrow. There seemed to be a tense feeling in her stomach when an arrow was released. Would it hit its mark or would it miss? Missing can be a choice leading to death, depending on the situation. 

When a thud pounced off trees, the older man’s stiff posture relaxed. Shoulders rolling and jaw clenched, a smile would welcome her. His smile outshines the sun, he can provide the light, she wanted to see it more even if it was small and toothless. Liyanin then would mimic his movements. Tightening her stomach, sucking it inwards, and flexing her legs. His hands moved to straighten her slouching back or to push her elbows upwards. Placing a palm to his stomach, he inhaled a deep breath, showing her what to do. Breath through the nose, only release when the arrow flies.

The girl pulled every muscle in, trapping air inside her body, like her father does, and exhales when the arrow strikes the tree. Syura’ewan clapped at those times, when his sister's arrow hit the tree, attention focused on her. Liyanin would not miss the guilt in their father’s yellow eyes. Noticing the change as she ran back with the arrow, handing it to Syura’ewan to shoot. The guilt vanished as quickly as his smile appeared. If her brother took notice, he did not utter a word. 

Those were times Liyanin wished for an arrow between her eyes. When Liyanin was young, her father carried a split tsko. Bow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really deleted chapter two and rewrote it because the style didn't feel like me. Now it does, maybe. Criticism is always welcomed, please I beg for it. I feel like I could have made the chapter longer and add more sections between dialogue. Okay I shut up now. Enjoy, love you xoxo 
> 
> Tsko - Bow  
> Ite - Daughter  
> Sempul - Father

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Criticism is always welcomed but please be constructive when doing so! This story has been floating around in my drafts for a while and I find myself often struggling with my regular stories, I want to improve my writing and play around with it. So I thought this story would be good for that. 
> 
> Vocabulary  
> Kaltxi: Hello!  
> Bola: An entanglement weapon used by hunters when on hunts. (or trails)  
> Iknimaya: A rite of passage every young Na'vi must do. This passage is where the Na'vi select, capture, and bond with an ikran.  
> Ikran Makto: Banshee Rider. (rite of passage, look at Iknimaya)  
> Angtsik: Hammerhead Titanothere. A creature found on Pandora.  
> Syaksyuk: Prolemuris. A monkey like creature found on Pandora, inhabiting trees.


End file.
